Hit the Ground
by TheWomanWoman
Summary: Set in the months following The Reichenbach Fall from the perspectives of Sherlock and John plus those who witness them fall apart alone and work to ensure their reunion. Slow burner, rated M for violence, bad language and eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N – I'm completely new to this writing malarkey so offer unreserved apologies if it's utter rubbish. I am however an unashamed lover of fanfiction and have read some outstanding pieces on here. I don't have a beta so the guaranteed mistakes are all my own, I'd love constructive criticism and an indication on whether I'm simply embarrassing myself by bothering to put this out there.**

**This plot has been stuck in my head since watching The Reichenbach Fall and until I get it out and on paper so to speak I don't think I'm going to be much good for anything.**

**Well, into the breach then, I've loaded the first 2 chapters up and I've got 4 more waiting. I'll warn you, this is one huge story…**

**Rated M for the eventual violence, bad language and of course for when the boys get reunited.**

**Lastly, it's worth mentioning that as I am not the Director General of the BBC, that I own nothing. Especially any of the known characters in this piece. I also make no profit from this, if I did then I wouldnt be sat in a cubicle for 8hrs a day. I'd be at home, with the boys, and possibly large quantities of baby oil. Obviously...**

* * *

**Prologue**

Shoulders hunched against the cold, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Sherlock trudged down the filthy alley they led to his current, temporary residence.

16 months, it had been 16 months since he'd faked his death with the help of Molly Hooper in order to save the lives of 3 people he cared for _'one more than anyone else' _a traitorous part of his mind piped up.

To think he'd thought it would be a matter of weeks, perhaps 6 months at the most given his need to heal the injuries he'd sustained. Apparently, falling that distance, even into a van filled with soft bedding, whilst significantly softer than concrete, was still likely to cause injuries.

Molly had snarled as much at him as she had set his leg none-too gently in an old-fashioned plaster of Paris cast in a hotel room on the north side of London all those months ago.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Sherlock_**

Molly was angry Sherlock mused as his leg was shifted slightly and he bit down on a yelp. The plan they'd managed to concoct in the short space of time that they had available had, by and large, been a success. Molly had driven the linen van into position with the 'Sherlock corpse' in the back. Sherlock landed in the truck, whilst John was knocked to the ground by a trusted member of his homeless network on a bicycle. Sherlock had gritted his teeth through the pain in his leg and managed to push the waiting corpse into position on the pavement before Molly drove for 5 short minutes to a rather isolated piece of land that Sherlock knew of. From here however the plan had fallen apart somewhere,

Molly stuck to her part admirably; dashing back to St Bart's in order to be there in time for the staged body to be brought into the morgue and handling the formal identification, post mortem and death certificate. Sherlock should have disposed of the van and made his way on foot to an agreed rendezvous point, The Catamount Arms hotel where he had booked a room under the name of Edward Grey. Molly would meet him there that evening, or night-time, dependant on when she could get away and he would plan his next move from there. Unfortunately, his leg had other plans, he hadn't even been able to call out to Molly before she left and had instead welcomed the greyness that swallowed him down into sweet oblivion. Upon arriving at the agreed rendezvous Molly had, apparently, been concerned when she found that Mr Grey had not checked in. Knowing she couldn't phone or text Sherlock she had made the decision to backtrack to where she had left the van and see if she could find some sign of him.

Sherlock tensed as he heard footsteps approach the rear of the van where he had concealed himself under some dirty linens upon regaining consciousness a few hours ago. Whilst it might fool a casual observer it wouldn't stand up to much scrutiny if say it was a police constable wondering why an NHS vehicle was abandoned in a seldom used alley way. _'Sherlock' _he heard Molly hiss, '_Sherlock, where the bloody hell are you?'_ he'd yanked the linens from over himself and spoke back 'I'm here Molly, and there's no need to be quite so secretive, I assure you, we are alone here'. He smirked a little at Molly's badly repressed scream before the agonising throb of his leg reminded him that he had more pressing concerns.

Some rather poor acting on both their parts to appear slightly drunk (although not so much that the establishment would want to turn them away). A lot in love (or at least lust), to try and explain why Sherlock could barely walk without being wrapped around Molly and her taking more than the lion's share of his weight had helped to get them checked into the hotel quickly and quietly. She had shoved 4 painkillers, fished from her handbag into his hand and grabbed him a glass of water from the bathroom before she slipped out of the hotel and headed back to St. Barts.

When she returned, about 90 minutes later, ever present handbag now bulging with medical supplied the painkillers had kicked in and the agony was muted as Molly manipulated the limb into a desirable position, splinted it and encased it in cold, slimy bandages. Sherlock had drowsed as she had done this, the painkillers, exhaustion at what he had just done, plus the enormity of the task now facing him combining to lull him into a semi-conscious state. He was shaken out of his drowsing state by Molly's first words in over half an hour 'There, that's done. Nowhere near as good as it could be of course. I've no x-rays and such and well, usually the dead don't care whether a limb is going to set properly. But, it's the best we can do under these circumstances. We'll know more in say 8 weeks'.

Sherlock glanced at her, this most unlikely of confidants and saw the very definition of exhaustion. Drying flecks of white plaster on her arms, where it had splashed above her latex gloves, tiny flecks in the front of her hair and an incongruous smudge across her left cheek. 'I'm going to get cleaned up' she said, snapping the gloves off and dropping them onto the ruined towels that she'd insisted on putting down to protect the bed covers. 'You'll need to let that dry for at least 48hrs before you think about putting any weight on it Sherlock' she sighed as she twisted around to place her feet on the floor, 'I'll get some crutches for you tomorrow'. He saw a tiny frown appear and her eyes became distant, presumably as she tried to figure out how she was going to manage that. Whilst her bag was big he didn't think it would be able to hold crutches.

As soon as he thought this a smile crossed his face, John had made him watch some absurd film about a governess with a bag that was apparently bottomless. He hadn't understood the film at all, however he'd happily sat and watched John silently mouth along with the songs. The opportunity to study John at his most comfortable had been precious to Sherlock, John had laughed loudly at various points in the film and at one point had settled so close to Sherlock that the press of their bodies down one side had left a residual tingling warmth in Sherlock long after John had gone to bed.

Grief, sharp as a blade, made his breath catch in his throat. It would be weeks before he could see John again. Before he could hear him laugh at something Sherlock had said or done. At this moment in time he'd be happy to hear him rant about finding a margarine tub full of toes in the fridge. He schooled his face into its usual mask of indifference as Molly laid a gentle hand on his own. 'Sherlock, are you sure that we can't-' he cut her off sharply 'No! I've explained, it's vital that everyone believe I am dead. I would not have involved you Molly had it not been absolutely necessary. I am confident that Moriarty will have underestimated you as he, as I, have done before. However the same cannot be said for Lestrade, Mrs Hudson or John. He will assuredly have people watching them and if so it is vital for their safety that they believe the ruse.'

He hated the desperation that he could hear in his voice, an unpleasant, whining tone that bordered on begging, begging her to understand. 'OK, OK Sherlock' she patted his hand in what one part of his brain immediately recoiled at as a condescending gesture, whilst the other half acknowledged as comforting. 'It was just a thought' she sighed 'right, I'm off for that shower'. As she made to stand Sherlock twisted his hand until his fingers were entwined with hers.

'Stay' he whispered quietly, at the uncertain look in her eyes he rushed to clarify, 'I mean, well, that is I meant to say, look-' he huffed out a breath, these feelings of gratitude, loss, uncertainty and self-doubt were making this far harder than it ought to have been. Emotions made everything so, messy. 'You're exhausted, I'm frankly a mess, both physically and, emotionally' he shot her a quick look that made it clear he had no desire to expand upon, nor discuss that statement, 'just, rest awhile Molly. There's nothing that can't wait until tomorrow and I could use the company.' Molly slowly nodded her head and allowed herself to be pulled up the bed until they were lying side by side. Molly turned herself onto her side until her head rested on his shoulder, her body a warm and comforting weight along his good side.

Sherlock allowed himself to relax, each muscle slowly easing from a tense state, As his breathing started to deepen and he could feel thoughts skittering across the surface of his mind but with no consequence or any real devotion given to them he heard Molly gasp once, followed by her shoulders shaking. Sherlock sighed internally, this was to be expected he supposed, of course it wouldn't make it any less pleasant to deal with. 'Ssssh, Molly. Everything will be alright. You've done brilliantly and your part is almost over' he murmured platitudes to her in what he hoped was a low and soothing voice. 'You, you don't know Sherlock' she gasped 'what it's done to him' his heart felt like it was breaking. 'Sssh' he tried to quiet her but she would not be silenced 'I've seen so many people at their absolute lowest, seeing someone they love on my slab at the morgue. But this is different Sherlock. He's, he's…' she floundered obviously trying to find a word to convey what she meant, remaining meanwhile, ignorant of the pain she was causing him, 'broken, utterly broken' she finished quietly.

Sherlock felt his eyes sting with tears, he blinked furiously to prevent even a single one from falling. He had known this would be difficult. However his reasons remained valid and he would not put John in danger. He took a steadying breath before speaking 'Molly, please. I, I can't bear to hear it. I had no choice, it was this or see him die. I am going to make this right, a matter of weeks, perhaps a few months given the state of my leg. But I guarantee you I will end Moriarty's enterprise and make it safe for me to return to him. But until then, please, I can't hear how this is hurting him because if there is one thing that will tempt me to reveal myself before the time is right it is the idea that I am causing him pain-' he stopped the second he realised he was sobbing. His face was soaked and his breathing rapid, Molly was looking at him with something akin to horror mixed with wonder. 'Oh dear God,' she gasped' you lov-'. 'No!' he shouted 'don't, don't say it Molly. If you say it I won't be able to deny it and I'll ask myself how I can do this to him knowing how I feel about him. Please, I am truly begging you, do not say it' he gasped.

'OK, OK' she said, her voice stunned as she shifted until she was half hugging him, this apparently being what his body had been waiting for, he twisted, ignoring the pain in his leg until he was curled around her, his head upon her breast and sobbed. She held him, he was vaguely conscious of a hand stroking his hair and a low voice speaking softly to him but had no idea of the time that had passed when he started to come back to himself. Before he could even begin to feel embarrassed she had passed him a handful of tissues from the box on the side and allowed him to settle himself back onto his back. He had cleared his throat and was about to apologise when she stopped him, 'Sleep Sherlock' she had whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips and flicking off the bedside lamp on his side. 'It'll all seem better in the morning' she had promised as she switched off her own lamp and the room was plunged into darkness. He felt her hand entwine with his and he squeezed gently as an expression of unspeakable gratitude, he felt a returning pressure and then nothing as sleep overcame him.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Mycroft_**

As John Watson settled into the comfortable chair opposite him Mycroft Holmes sighed, the man had lost more weight since the last time he'd seen him, over 7 weeks ago. He made a point of trying to meet up with John at least once a month, well John still insisted on calling them 'kidnappings' but he seemed almost happy when the car pulled up alongside him wherever he happened to be walking or when Mycroft sat next to him in whatever non-descript pub or café John had settled in for an afternoon. But there had been some damned crisis with the American's and he had been out of the country for a number of weeks.

Anthea had emailed him 2 weeks ago to say she was concerned from the regular surveillance footage that the good Doctor was looking worse than he had done for a while, 'since the immediate weeks following your brother's 'death'' she had said. Mycroft could see now that Anthea hadn't exaggerated, not that he'd thought she had, really the woman was an excellent agent and he had high hopes for her future. But still, John's decline was worrying.

'So, how are you John?' he enquired, noticing as he did so that John's eyes were bloodshot, he hadn't shaved in 2 days and his jeans seemed to have been worn for the 5th time without being washed. 'Why do we persist with this Mycroft?' John asked quietly, his voice the very epitome of defeat. 'I understand that when Sherlock was, when we were living together, that there was a purpose to you kidnapping me like this. You worried about him, but he's dea-. He's not here anymore, why do you still put me through this?'

Mycroft sighed again, 10 months after Sherlock had jumped from the roof of St Barts and John still couldn't actually refer to Sherlock as dead. He knew the man was in therapy, he had full access to the therapist's notes and had agreed with the woman when after their second session, apparently John hadn't said more than 4 words in their first. Her notes had said _'patient is, in my opinion, despite experiencing the most debilitating case of bereavement I have ever seen, not a suicide risk. It appears that he would consider it an insult to the memory of SH if he took his own life. However, his tendency to self-neglect and lack of any substantial support network may pose problems.'_

What Mycroft hadn't realised when he agreed to 'watch over' John at Sherlock's request was the fact that these sessions would be difficult for him. In a way that was at first alarmingly like his exchange of information with Moriarty, it seemed that John would only talk to Mycroft if it were about Sherlock. John had seemed particularly conversant when Mycroft talked about Sherlock before John had known him and Mycroft had seen him smile and actually laugh once or twice on the few occasions that Mycroft had talked about Sherlock as a child. Fortunately those were the easiest stories for Mycroft to tell, from a time before intellect became prized above all else, above emotion. A time before a brilliant mind turned to drugs as a way to cope with the unending monotony of life. Sometimes, he reflected wryly, he felt he got as much out of these little chats as John seemed to.

'You know why I do John, because he would have wanted me to. And,' he continued before John could interrupt, 'because I like to talk to someone who remembers him fondly.' Mycroft saw the realisation cross John's face, he supposed that if Sherlock's death had been real, or even if he simply hadn't known that it was faked and was truly grieving the loss of his brother then he would want these conversations. It made sense that he would seek out someone else who grieved he loss of his prickly brother, sentiment again.

He relaxed minutely as he saw John settle himself into the chair, 'I was always a little curious' the doctor began, 'about the time you mentioned that Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate.'


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: OK, I'm assuming that people adding a story alert is a good thing and that they actually want to read it so I'm going to continue this little adventure into creativity. I'm still without a beta, mainly because no-one I know is fan-fic inclined and I'm also slightly embarrassed about some of the later chapters when the boys start to get a little (or a lot) bad-ass. And then even later, we've got some pretty hardcore loving coming up… Anyway, any and all mistakes are most assuredly mine. It's a pretty short one again I'm afraid but I'm at work, and really, ought to get back to pretending to be a happy little corporate robot.**

_John_

John was still smiling slightly as he let himself into 221B Baker St, he'd spent a good 2 hours with Mycroft listening to a rather entertaining story of a precocious young Sherlock. His grin grew at the mental image of a 6 year old Sherlock, in what Mycroft had dubbed his 'pirate phase', managing to construct a raft of sorts and sail out into the middle of the lake on the grounds of the Holmes' summer estate. Mycroft had scowled as he'd explained that parental threats, appeals to reason and eventually outright bribery, ('they offered to buy him a boat John, a real bloody boat!'), had failed to convince Sherlock to bring the boat back to the edge.

In the absence of another, Mycroft had been nominated to swim out and 'commandeer' the vessel, ensuring his little brothers safe return to dry land. "Mummy was in evening wear and Father wasn't a strong swimmer. I think they were frankly too embarrassed to think to ask any of the staff so naturally it fell to me' Mycroft had said, John had laughed at the idea of a disgruntled teenage Mycroft stripping to his pants in order swim a lake and bring back his baby 'pirate' brother.

'They all loved him, thought it was bloody adorable. Mother was the worst of course' Mycroft adopted an overly falsetto voice '_Look at little Sherlock, managing that all on his own' _he simpered. 'Never mind the fact that I was soaked, freezing and humiliated. The little bastard bit me! I'd pulled myself aboard the blasted contraption and he grabbed my hand. I thought to myself that he was, well I'm not sure, pleased to see me maybe. Perhaps he thought he was going to get into trouble. But then he bit me, and then, in shock of course, I'd fallen off the damned thing. And to just top it off, when I surfaced, coughing up the half gallon of filthy water I'd managed to inhale he was standing there, proud as punch. Well, I'm sure you can imagine it.' He'd finished wryly, allowing a small smile as John had laughed uncontrollably and snorted tea all over his lap.

John sighed as he settled into his chair, he had tried for a long time to keep the pure rage and hatred he'd felt towards Mycroft burning white hot. However, after he'd punched the man for the 6th time and Mycroft had simply sighed as he reached for the ever present silk handkerchief to mop his bloody nose. John had realised that he just couldn't maintain that level of anger towards the man who, yes. Had in what John could only assume was either arrogance or stupidity, handed Moriarty the tools he needed to destroy the greatest man John had ever met. But perhaps more importantly, was the only connection he had to that man. It helped that he could see the genuine regret that Mycroft felt over his actions. Like Sherlock, Mycroft wasn't the sort to fall about sobbing in uncontrollable grief. But, John could tell in the set of the man's shoulders, the shadows under his eyes and the rare occasions he had seen Mycroft's hands shaking as he reached for his ever present briefcase or umbrella that Mycroft wasn't as emotionally remote about his brother's death as he pretended to be.

In fact, these little chats had progressed over the months from an enquiry (or interrogation) into John's wellbeing to the two of them reminiscing about Sherlock. He knew that Mycroft had picked up on the fact that it was easier for him when Mycroft talked and he listened. Bizarrely, the whole set-up was much like his own therapy sessions. Except in these instances he was the passive person, the listener, the therapist, whilst Mycroft was the one divulging, the patient. He recalled Mycroft's weary words today 'because I like to talk to someone who remembers him fondly'. It had been at that point that John realised that maybe, this time spent together, wasn't just a sense of misplaced loyalty to Sherlock. Oh, he knew that that was undoubtedly a part of it, Mycroft felt he had let his brother down, and it had resulted in his death. Therefore, he would protect the one thing he knew his brother had cared for, namely John.

But he believed now that Mycroft also needed these times, a chance to remember his brother. Mycroft frequently told stories about Sherlock when he was small. And John knew that it was because those were the ones more likely to get him to open up in return and talk a little about how he was doing, whether he was thinking about returning to practice, or maybe getting a dog (a suggestion from his therapist). But he wondered if Mycroft realised that he too seemed more relaxed when telling these stories. John could tell from what he'd heard from Mycroft that they hadn't always had the tense, overly competitive relationship that had been the norm by the time John turned up. Many of the Mycroft's stories from their younger years had a young Sherlock, more often than not getting into some sort of trouble and an older, reluctant (although John suspected that the reluctance was often overly affected in the telling) helping him out of it. Usually the story ended up with the joke being made at Mycroft's expense, yet he rarely seemed genuinely upset by that fact.

Often Mycroft would be smiling gently as he recalled these events, John had even heard him laugh out loud on occasion. The weight from his shoulders dropped a little, he sat straighter, which, whilst in a normal person would perhaps suggest increased tension actually seemed to be Mycroft's natural posture. John didn't like seeing him slumped he realised, it wasn't right, that one of the Holmes brothers should be weary with the weight of the world, or even just his own regrets, weighing him down.

As he heard Mrs Hudson call a hello from the bottom of the stairs and shout that she would be up with a cup of tea and some biscuits in ten, he resolved that next time he would do the talking. See if Mycroft would find it comforting, as he himself did, to hear a story about a Sherlock that he perhaps hadn't know as well as he would have liked to. John's Sherlock. As he heard Mrs Hudson's radio come on downstairs and a likeable tune drift upstairs as she bustled around her kitchen making tea he reached for his laptop. Perhaps one of his old blog entries about a case would trigger the memory of a perfect story to share with Mycroft next time they met.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Oh wow, my first ever review. I cannot tell you how happy that made me, when I got the email notification I was on the tube and I genuinely squealed like a little girl! This chapter is a long one and we're finally getting to see some BAMFSherlock! **

**Next couple of chapters are being refined, I keep thinking that they're OK and then hate them when I re-read it. I expect to get them sorted this week and posted by the end of the week. I know that I'm jumping around in the timeframe here and I'm hoping it's not too confusing. Basically I'll always try to reference where we are in the timeline in a chapter opening, but I quite like being able to jump around. Who knows, it might settle down some into a somewhat more linear fashion when I get where I need to be for the great reunion piece. Then again, it might not… **

**Once again that great Big British Company known as the BBC own everything, I'm just playing with them. I promise to give them back in one piece. **

_Sherlock_

Sherlock watched through the brasserie window as the man he had been tracking for the last 2 weeks entered the slightly run down house on the street opposite. He watched the lights flicker on and saw the slightly eerie blue glow that meant the man had turned on his television. The tinted illumination lit up, what he knew from a swift inspection of the property he'd made earlier that day, to be the sitting room. He nodded to the approaching waiter and ordered another coffee, he would have to wait at least another couple of hours for the man to get relaxed and hopefully fall asleep before he made his entrance.

'Là vous allez monsieur, votre café. Y at-il autre chose que je peux obtenir pour vous?'¹ Sherlock considered this question, he tried to recall when he had last eaten and with a sigh he nodded. 'Merci. Oui, je voudrais commander de la nourriture. Ce qui est bon se passera bien.' The waiter nodded and slipped away. As Sherlock sipped at the bitter coffee he couldn't help but wonder what John was doing at this moment, he tried to picture him doing the things he usually did. Sitting in his armchair, perhaps, reading a book or blogging on his laptop whilst some terrible TV programme was on in the background. However, he doubted that this was actually the case. It had been just 3 months since Sherlock had faked his own death in order to save John's life, and of course those of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He knew from the very brief conversation he had had with Mycroft last week that John was still very angry.

He laughed when Mycroft told him that John had punched him. Sherlock deduced that the punch had bloodied, but not broken Mycroft's nose. Not that he doubted John's ability to do so, but whilst the overly nasal tone to Mycroft's voice was obvious to him, it was in fact so small a change that it would be barely noticeable to anyone else, so not broken. However, he'd been less than amused when Mycroft said he would do as John so obviously desired and keep his distance. 'You bloody well will not!' Sherlock had retorted, 'I asked you for one thing Mycroft and that was that you look out for John whilst I am away. Do not fail me in this Mycroft or I will ensure you regret it.' 'Actually Sherlock, you didn't ask me to do anything. You demanded that I look after your friend and since then have demanded money, resources and at last count 6 complete false identities' Mycroft's response was positively frosty.

Sherlock took a deep breath, he hated being indebted to anyone, his brother especially, however he had to admit that Mycroft had been more than helpful in providing him everything he had asked for. What he couldn't articulate, or perhaps didn't want to, was that whilst the money, guns, intelligence reports and the many other things Mycroft had supplied him with were proving invaluable in his attempt to destroy Moriarty's empire. All of them were meaningless compared to John's wellbeing, if John wasn't there, relatively safe and sound, then there wouldn't be a point to this and Sherlock would have nothing to come back to. 'I, apologise. You are of course quite right Mycroft. I will refrain from making any further requests for resources or finances in the future. However, I ask you to not give up on John. I expected it would take some time for him to forgive you, he has an exceptional capacity for loyalty and he will perceive the information you disclosed to Moriarty to be a betrayal of the most heinous kind.'

Sherlock flinched slightly at the involuntary hiss of breath he heard from Mycroft. The fact was that whilst Sherlock himself had found himself lacking in anger or disappointment over what had happened between Mycroft and Moriarty, he knew that Mycroft didn't see it that way. In fact, when he'd revealed himself to Mycroft, just 4 days after faking his death his brother had begged his forgiveness eloquently and seemed genuinely to feel responsible for Sherlock's current situation. 'It was' Mycroft murmured, just as Sherlock was about to apologise for his poor phrasing. 'I cannot change the past Sherlock. As much as I regret my actions and the consequences of them I can only accept my share of the responsibility. Of course I will honour your request to watch over John, and as for the rest, well. Let's just say that I find it easier to create multiple false identities that would withstand scrutiny from most nations secret service never mind local constabularies and to smuggle you illegal weapons than I suspect it will be to convince John to forgive me or even deign to speak to me.'

'John has many qualities Mycroft' Sherlock said, 'loyalty, bravery, morality are all very obvious. However I can assure you, he is also perhaps the most forgiving person I have ever met.' He paused, 'except, perhaps Mummy' he added as an afterthought. 'All I ask is that you simply persist, he will need someone to talk to. I know he won't want to burden Mrs Hudson and I imagine he is livid at Lestrade at the moment. You, at least, have the advantage of having never doubted me. That will be important to him.' His eyes caught movement through the window opposite, the silhouette of the man appeared to stand and stretch before moving across the room and the illumination provided by the television was suddenly gone. 2 minutes later the room he knew to be the bedroom was lit and he saw the man putter around the room before the light was switched off. His target had presumably settled in for the night. He felt his stomach tighten with an odd mix of anticipation and nerves, his mission was about to begin, this was the first step in bringing down the vast network that Moriarty had left behind. He regretted ordering a meal the second that the waiter unobtrusively set it down at his side.

'I have further intelligence reports for you' Mycroft had it seemed, decided that the conversation needed a turn of subject. 'They'll be waiting for you at the usual email address. As soon as you have an opportunity to review them we can discuss your next moves, once you have made contact with your current target of course.' Sherlock snorted a laugh at the euphemism, ''made contact?' he asked 'is _that_ what they're calling it nowadays? It is my intention to kill the man Mycroft, not introduce myself and ask if he'd care for a cup of tea.' 'Well quite' Mycroft harrumphed, 'however I gathered from the background noise that you are in public. Delicacy, whilst often wasted on you brother, must at times be observed.' Suitably chastened Sherlock cast a quick glance around the establishment, relieved to see it was as empty as it had been when he had settled in there, some hours ago. Only the lone waiter and a young woman, not a staff member, daughter of the establishment owner he deduced, were present. And they had settled into a murmured conversation at the opposite end of the bar.

'Speaking of', Mycroft continued, 'how much progress have you made with your current target?' Sherlock shifted in his seat to push the untouched plate of food away. As he reached for his wallet to pay, the comforting weight of the standard army issue Browning in the small of his back made itself known. 'More than you might think Brother' he pulled out a handful of Euro's and placed them on the table surface. 'You will likely hear of the suicide of a man, discovered to be part of a people trafficking ring by Gendarmerie at some point this week. It depends on how long it takes them to pick up the pieces of the trail I've left them.' He stood and pulled his coat and gloves on before reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes, he'd found himself smoking after just 2 days trapped in a hotel room and hadn't been able to break the habit as of yet. He supposed that was in large part due to having no-one to nag him about it, plus it was much easier to maintain a smoking habit on the continent. Whilst they had unfortunately adopted the ridiculous ban on smoking in public places the habit hadn't quite reached the same levels of taboo as it seemed to have done in England.

As he stepped outside he ducked his head and cupped his hand around the lighter to protect the flame from the rising wind. Pausing for a second to savour the first inhalation of the warming and soothing smoke deep into his lungs, before exhaling in a contented sigh he drawled 'I'll review the new information tonight once I'm finished here, am I to assume then that you will continue to assist me in terms of resources? I don't imagine that what remains of Moriarty's web have made things easy for me and are all conveniently located in or around Paris?' 'Well that would be all together rather too easy wouldn't it Sherlock? No, all information points to your next targets being some distance away, one has settled in Boston. He seems to have found a niche in arms dealing to organised crime gangs based in Brazil. Whilst the other was, at last report, heading for Shanghai.' Sherlock inhaled again, really these cigarettes were far superior to anything he'd smoked back home. He'd have to see about sourcing them once he returned home. Not that he imagined he'd be smoking much. John hated it when he did smoke, the Dr in him he'd used to say. But still, there were always quiet weeks when the boredom was so crushing that it was smoke or do something even more self-destructive. Sherlock was, despite everyone's assumptions otherwise, remarkably self-aware. He knew that his inherent self-destructive tendencies were only exasperated by boredom. He made a conscious decision in those times to seek the least dangerous outlet for his frustrations and whilst John might disagree with his assessment of smoking as not-dangerous, at least the immediate repercussions were unlikely to include an arrest or fistfight.

'Very well, I'll review the intelligence and confirm to you my next move once I've made a decision. Now, if you don't mind Mycroft whilst it has been as amusing and pleasant as always to chat. I have a prior commitment that I simply cannot be late for' he dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. He could feel his heart rate increase, nothing significant, not enough adrenaline at the moment. Simply a physiological response to what he knew was coming, 'very well, do please be careful Sherlock'. That was unexpected, an expression of sentiment on either of their parts was unusual and it wasn't as though this would be the most dangerous situation he had ever faced. Perhaps more unexpected was the underlying tone of concern, Mycroft's voice was almost always a smooth tenor, however under times of extreme stress he tended to rise into an alto range. In addition his cadence was slightly off, resulting in a stress in the wrong places. Sherlock could feel another small increase in his pulse, 'of course, it would be rather inconvenient for my plans if I died now, at the first hurdle, wouldn't it Mycroft?' Before he knew what had possessed him he continued, 'however, I can call you once I'm done? I'll be contacting your team to confirm the extraction anyway…' he trailed off, unsure what had led him to make the offer and convinced that Mycroft would either be as confused as him, or ridicule him for making the suggestion. Instead he heard a quiet sigh, almost of relief before Mycroft quietly responded, 'yes. I would appreciate that. Well I expect I'll be hearing from you shortly Sherlock. Goodbye for now'. Mycroft rang off before Sherlock could respond and he stood trying to process the odd turn of the conversation for a moment before shrugging it off as irrelevant to the current situation and pocketing his phone moved towards the now darkened building in front of him.

**A/N – OK so I had this and the next chapter as one but decided it would actually be better in 2….**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N – OK, so the second part of this rather epic chapter…**

**I'm still unbeta'd so any and all mistakes are mine. Just point them out if I'm messing up or I screw up the continuity.**

_Sherlock_

It had taken less than 2 minutes to pick the simple lock on the shared entrance to the building, avoiding the 4th step on the 28 step staircase to the upstairs apartment, which he knew from his earlier visit, creaked. He made it to the top of the stairs without making so much as a whisper of sound. Picking the 2, slightly more complex, locks on the door to the apartment took longer, however just under 5 minutes later he was inside the man's apartment and silently closed the door behind him. He strained for a moment but the space was completely silent, the sitting room was dimly lit by the streetlight that made it through the thin curtains and Sherlock could make out the outlines of the larger items of furniture in the room. No need, he had made and committed to memory a perfect map of the apartment and was confident he could evade all obstacles.

Sidling silently down the small corridor to the bedroom Sherlock took the time to glance in through any open doors, it wouldn't do to get complacent and have it cost everything. Satisfied that everything was as it should be he approached the bedroom door. Placing his hand on the handle he lifted up, he'd noted that the door was poorly hung and the bottom of the door would drag on the flooring if not lifted slightly. As he started to turn the handle he heard a faint click, in perhaps the once instance he would ever be able to recall, his body reacted quicker than his mind and as the door splintered he was already diving to the left. He felt the burning pain in his left side but distantly, as though it had happened to someone else and he was simply observing it. He rolled as he hit the ground, his right arm beneath him and pushing him up into a crouch whilst his left grasped at the gun secured in the small of his back.

Considering and dismissing several options almost instantaneously Sherlock retreated in a crouch to the small sitting room, he crouched behind the oversized armchair which afforded him a view of the bedroom and the entryway into the apartment. He realised there had been no real noise, apart from the bullet smashing its way through the bedroom door and the thump he must have made as he landed from his rather graceless dive, so a silencer then. Not that there was anyone to call the Gendarmerie at the sound of gunfire anyway, he knew that the downstairs apartment was vacant and that the adjoining buildings were businesses where no one would be on the premises until the following morning. Sherlock felt the warmth trickling over the hand he had clasped to his side. He dared a swift glance and decided that whilst it definitely required medical attention he didn't seem to be losing too much blood, the odds were good that nothing major had been hit. Unless of course, he considered, he was bleeding internally. Well, there wasn't much for it, either he wasn't and he would survive this and seek medical treatment after or he wouldn't, and, well there wasn't all that much he would be in a position to do if that were the case.

Dismissing the train of thought he immediately set himself to the task at hand, he needed to draw the man out of the bedroom and ideally into a situation that did not involve a face off at gunpoint. The bedroom was easily defendable, the man would know the instant Sherlock attempted to enter and of the two of them Sherlock was the one under a time pressure. Briefly he considered following through with his plan. His original plan was of course now unworkable. He had, using the killer cabbie case that had been his and John's first together, as inspiration, planned on making the man's death appear as a suicide. However, a bullet, shot from a gun fitted with a silencer, and nowhere to be found at the scene, given that it was currently residing somewhere in the lower left quadrant of Sherlock's abdomen complicated matters.

Deciding that he would resolve the issue of how to stage the death once he had actually managed to engineer it Sherlock assessed his options. Deciding that the only possibility he had of getting the man out of the bedroom was if he believed that Sherlock had left the apartment, but despairing that no one as well prepared as his planned target was would ever fall for such an obvious ruse Sherlock decided that it was his only option. However, as he checked his range of movement and found it considerably better than he had anticipated another idea made itself known. Glancing quickly at the bedroom and deciding that the man had indeed settled in to wait Sherlock darted across the sitting room, as he wrenched open the door another bullet thunked into the door frame, only 2 inches to the right of him and at exactly eye level. Sherlock threw himself out of the door and slammed it behind him as he stumbled down the stairs and burst out onto the street.

Sprinting as fast as he could around to the side of the building Sherlock glanced up at the dangling fire escape, quickly applying the safety to the gun he still carried and tucking it into his waistband. Before gritting his teeth and leaping up, only just managing to grab the metal framework. Supressing a groan of pain as the wound in his side made itself known he hauled himself upwards until he lay, sprawled on his back and panting upwards at the Parisian sky. Rolling to his side and pushing himself to his feet he felt the warmth of blood pooling in the fold of his shirt, realising that time was indeed limited he ran to the end of the fire escape and risked a swift glance in through the window of the man's apartment.

The thin curtains, more muslin that real cloth, afforded Sherlock a small amount of visibility, whilst offering some degree of concealment. On his first glance nothing appeared to have changed, on the second a mere 60 seconds later however he noticed the entry way into the apartment was slightly ajar, suggesting the man had chased after him. He swiftly glanced downwards at street level, almost certain that he was about to see the man just about to end his life as he shot an exposed Sherlock from the ground. It appeared however that the man had not bothered to pursue Sherlock, he had simply been ensuring that Sherlock had indeed fled the apartment. He heard the man's approach back up the stairs. Alerted by the slight creak of the 4th step and the slightly muffled curse that he could hear at the noise it made.

How was it possible, Sherlock mused, that a man so sloppy to not pursue a would-be assassin, to not know every step of his safe house and make foolish mistakes like tread on a creaking step, could have possibly anticipated his attack? He racked his memory for an occasion where his careful surveillance may have been detected, he must have made a mistake. Unable to identify his mistake at the moment he resolved to simply ask the man. He watched and grinned to himself as the man applied the safety to his gun before crouching and inspecting the lock on the door to try and puzzle out how exactly Sherlock had entered the apartment without making a noise. He pulled the browning from his waistband and silently disengaged the safety, taking careful aim through the window he fired once. As the man fell to the ground, both hands clasping his knee where Sherlock's bullet had entered, Sherlock used the butt of his gun to clear out the remaining glass in the window and stepped through.

He approached the figure who was moaning pitifully as he clawed for the pistol that had been knocked from his hand as he fell. Darting forwards quickly Sherlock scooped it up and tucked it securely into his waistband whilst maintaining a rock steady aim with his own gun at the man's other knee. 'Thierry Moreau I presume?' the smile on Sherlock's face would have convinced Sally Donovan so thoroughly right then, that no amount of reasoning would have ever convinced her that Sherlock was in fact not a psychopath. 'I have so looked forward to meeting you, I understand we have an acquaintance in common, James Moriarty?' He reached down and grasped the man by his upper arm with one hand and pressed the barrel of the gun to the man's forehead. He half dragged the man to the lone wooden chair that sat by the sad looking wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. Shoving the man into the chair and, and maintaining a steady pressure of the gun at the man's temple he swiftly pulled a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket. Securing the man's hands behind his back he took a step back and grabbed a clean-looking dishtowel from the kitchen side. Wadding it up and pressing it to his side where the bleeding seemed to have slowed he placed the gun gently onto the side, still easily within reach. 'So, let's talk then shall we Monsieur Moreau?'

**A/N – ok, so the next 2 chapters are OK in terms of content (I think) but when we come back to Sherlock it's going to get a little graphic in terms of him 'persuading ' Moreau' to talk. If that squicks you then you might want to think about quitting now as I guarantee you, it's nowhere near as rough as I'm planning on taking this. **

**Reviews really are love, and I'd love to know if anyone has a view on where this should go. I've pretty much mapped out the whole thing but it's very loose and fluid and I change my mind on an almost daily basis so any suggestions would be gratefully received. **


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